


x amount of proof ( truth by induction )

by mockturtletale



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Angst, Confessions, Honesty, M/M, Pining, Truth Serum, dosed, wizard reasons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2018-02-06 07:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1850113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mockturtletale/pseuds/mockturtletale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It tumbles right out and sits there between them, brand new and shining and not new at all; years old and pulled right from Taylor’s heart, ripped right from the very center of everything he never says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	x amount of proof ( truth by induction )

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the cliche fest challenge at home_ice.
> 
> Feelings!/honesty!pollen, and the warnings that come with that: consent and volition issues, characters being drugged without their knowledge or permission. Angst. Misunderstandings.
> 
> Thanks to romasquerade for the beta.

After their gold medal game in Russia in 2008, Jordan looks at Taylor grinning so widely that Taylor’s own smile aches in sympathy. That night when Taylor watches Jordan wipe the wet shine of alcohol from his lips the ache falls a little lower, becomes a kind of pang that settles sharp in his chest like a breath he can’t take and Taylor blinks and thinks ‘oh’. 

 

-

 

A year and a half later, after a silver medal game much closer to home, Taylor stares up at Jordan’s bedroom ceiling and holds his breath so he can’t hear anything but Jordan’s voice and the thick thunder of his own heart when Jordan tells Taylor that he’s gay. He doesn’t ask how he knows, or if he’s sure, or if this means that Taylor can finally kiss him. He reaches for Jordan’s hand in the dark and says “you’re my best friend,” instead, because that’s true too. 

 

\- 

 

Six months, two weeks and three days later, Jordan and Taylor move in together. The first time they close their front door and stand facing one another, hidden from the world, Jordan grins that grin from years ago now, and the ache that Taylor welcomes easily gets tucked away lower still, right at home in the pit of his stomach. Taylor smiles back and very loudly says nothing. 

 

\- 

 

Some nights, Taylor says something. 

A seemingly stray comment about an attractive guy on tv. 

A compliment more pointed than idle. 

A confession delivered in earnest to his bathroom mirror. 

A gasped plea pressed into his pillow, and then an apology and a prayer threaded together and exhaled, yielded to the thin slice of light from the hallway creeping in underneath Taylor’s bedroom door - offered up into the dead of night, a sacrifice and a claim. 

That last is just two words. 

Petition and a name. 

 

\- 

 

Sometimes their teammates ask very carefully phrased questions that can only ever result in answers that leave the desired and the obvious to seem like one and the same. Jordan looks away, or didn’t see anything there in the first place, and Taylor is left to pick up the raised eyebrows, and genuinely puzzled, inquiring looks. 

‘I’m trying,’ Taylor wants to say. 

‘I’ve tried,’ is what he thinks. 

‘It’s not,’ is what he tries to say. 

“We’re not,” is what he says instead, and that feels like far too much entirely. 

 

\- 

 

It is too much: it’s enough. 

 

\- 

 

When he thinks back, he’ll think it begins with how he grabs Jordan’s hand in the cab on the way home from the bar. He hadn’t meant to do that. He always wants to, but he never means to, and this time he had. He couldn’t _not_. 

That was where it started, he thinks. 

 

\- 

 

Taylor’s thoughts and his feelings seem to be churning in his stomach, and that doesn’t really make sense because he definitely didn’t have that much to drink. Him and Jordan grabbed the first couple of rounds when they’d arrived, but they’d both stopped drinking after that, until Whits had pressed one last beer into their hands right before everyone called it a night. 

Three beers and Taylor really shouldn’t feel like he’s maybe going to throw up, except something not like that - not physical - at all. 

“Hey, grab me a gatorade?” Jordan calls over the back of the couch, and Taylor thinks _’Yes. Anything.’_

But when he brings two back, Jordan pulls one from his hand, smiling, and says “our favorite flavor,” and _’Sure,’_ Taylor thinks, but what he says instead is, 

“No. I just say that because I wish it was. I like the light blue one best, but you like green and I like you.” 

Jordan stares at him. 

Taylor opens his mouth to take that back, to make it a joke, to say something that will make Jordan’s face crumple up prettily in laughter instead of falling, ashen, the way it is. 

He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, but Jordan saves him the trouble. 

“I like you. I like you a lot. _Heaps_. Way more than I should,” and Taylor should be elated, maybe, because that kind of sounds like Jordan is saying he’s into him, but probably that’s not it, probably he just means as friend, because if you tell someone you like them you don’t say it like it’s paining you to do so, like you’re actually hurting because of the words. 

Jordan’s face is screwed up in a grimace, and he’s still so pale, and his hands are shaking around the cap and neck of his bottle. 

“Taylor,” he says in a gasp, and then he’s dropping the gatorade on the floor and reaching out, one hand grabbing Taylor’s shoulder and the other falling over Taylor’s hand on his own knee, and the touch - the hot, clammy feel of Jordan’s skin against Taylor’s - sets something free in him, sets something _loose_. When Jordan touches him the need to be honest, to say what he feels, rips through him like a bolt of electricity that doesn’t stop, that won’t stop, that can’t stop until - 

“I love you,” Taylor says. 

“What the fuck is happening,” is Jordan’s reply. 

 

\- 

 

Jordan is staring at him wide eyed and terrified, and Taylor feels the same way, except all weirdly charged too, like fear cresting over into excitement. It’s the biggest adrenaline rush he’s ever been on, but more than that, more than just energy - a hot, heavy kind of throb of _truth_ through him. It’s fifteen different kinds of terrifying, but Taylor feels like …. not like he can’t tell a lie, but like he doesn’t want to. Like he shoudn’t have to. Like he can tell the truth and say what he means and when he does - because he does - everything will be okay. 

But he still has the presence of mind to know that that isn’t really the case. That telling the truth could fuck everything up. 

Except every time he finds himself thinking ‘I can’t, I shouldn’t,’ something inside him says ‘you can you should you have to’ instead, and the thought swells warm and bright inside him, licking away at every trace of guilt and fear in his stomach and spreading out through his entire body, like every single part of him is … pure, somehow. Light with honesty, flushed strong and brilliant with the gleam of everything that’s true. He feels right. And when he says these things to Jordan, he feels even better. 

When words that he doesn’t mean to say fall out of his mouth anyway, he feels something like hot, good _glory_ is welling up inside him, spilling out with his words and falling back down into him - settled, blazing pleasure. 

“I can’t …. not …. it’s not that I can’t lie, I can’t not tell you the truth,” Jordan says, his face still panicked and his voice tripping over the words but he closes his eyes once he gets them out, swallows and takes a breath and _shudders_ and yeah, that looks to be about how Taylor feels. 

“I don’t want to not tell the truth,” Taylor says in reply, “well I never want to, but now I … I _won’t_ not tell the truth. Is that weird? It feels weird. Do you feel weird? You look good.” 

And it’s going to take him all of five seconds to spill his guts about this, he’s already doing it. Some distant part of himself registers that this isn’t good, that this can’t possibly end well, but other than those five niggling cells or so, every single one besides is singing in something like wild, absolute ecstasy and it’s so easy to get pulled under by that. 

“I look … what?” Jordan asks, and the question feels wrong, even to Taylor, even before Jordan’s face creases up in discomfort, because they shouldn’t be asking questions now, they don’t have to know - they have to _tell_. 

“You’re kinda pale, I guess, but you’re always paler than me, I always think about how your skin would look right next to mine, how my hands would look on you. You look great. You always do. I always think so,” and Taylor sways under the satisfaction that swims up through him and trips off his tongue and slides liquid down his throat and warm all over him. 

Jordan winces and drags his hands off Taylor like it’s killing him to do so, and he looks like he’s going to be sick even before he says it. 

“Don’t, Taylor,” he half chides, half begs. “Just … stop talking, please, we need to - we can’t - why is this happening,” he moans, wrapping his arms around himself and closing his eyes, gritting his teeth. 

Taylor reaches for him, but doesn’t allow himself to say anything else, and it’s almost a fair trade off. He can barely breathe against the wave of relief that crashes over him when he tugs Jordan into his arms, and his chest is tight and burning against all the things he’s keeping in. 

It hurts, it feels so wrong, but Jordan is freaking out and Taylor needs to stop, for him. 

“Okay,” he says, breathing through it, “I can. We. When?” is all he’s able to ask before the pressure building up inside him expands too far, gets to be too much, and he blinks once against the darkness at the edges of his vision and the way his heart and his brain seem to skitter and skip before everything goes black. 

 

\- 

 

When he comes to again he’s lying flat on the couch and Jordan is on his knees next to him, leaning in over him, his eyes wide and terrified. His hands are framing Taylor’s face and trembling hard and Taylor gasps for breath and lifts his head and crushes his mouth to Jordan’s because somehow he knows that that’s the only way he’ll be able to breathe easily again. He doesn’t even have the presence of mind to really enjoy it, or push his luck, he just fits his mouth to Jordan’s and stays like that until the world comes back to him. 

It’s a mark of how scared he is that Jordan lets him. 

When Taylor pulls away Jordan sits back and touches his lower lip, shocked and silent but the set of his shoulders dropping too, the tremble soothed from his hands. 

“I love your mouth. I want to taste the things you say, sometimes,” Taylor says, because he’s not trying to make this worse, honestly he isn’t, but bad things happen when he doesn’t say what he’s thinking and feeling and thankfully Jordan seems to understand. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. 

“Okay,” he says again, but it’s different thing time, broken and strange and faint like nothing they’ve said so far has been, because the things they say right now can’t be anything but sure. 

“ _Whits_ ,” he says, sharp and clear, and Taylor thinks something about that rings true. 

 

\- 

 

Jordan climbs up off the floor to sit in against Taylor, their bodies touching right along the length of both their sides, their arms overlapping and their thighs touching and Jordan’s foot hooked under Taylor’s ankle and Taylor’s body humming for the contact. 

Taylor grabs for Jordan’s hand and holds it tight between both of his. Jordan’s fingers lock with his, and it sends shivers up through Taylor’s arms, hot little splinters that Taylor has to close his eyes against and cling to, letting his head drop back against the couch so he can concentrate on trying to breathe through the pleasure of touching Jordan. 

With his free hand, Jordan makes a call. 

“Whits - _what_ ,” he grates out, grabbing Taylor’s hand so tight that his fingernails dig into the skin between Taylor’s knuckles, and even that tiny shock of pain feels fucking great, so good and right. 

Taylor strains to hear Whits’ voice, steady and guarded. 

“It’s okay, Jordan. You’re gonna be fine. It’s just … it’s like a truth serum, sort of. It’ll be good for you, I promise. It’s exactly what you guys need. Chicken soup for the soul, okay?” 

“No,” Jordan says, and the word grates through him and Taylor, catching like broken brick against their bones, hard and wrong and agonizing, but he persists. 

“Not okay. Not okay,” he mutters, and when Taylor looks down there are four little half crescent red rings on the back of his hand, lines of blood welling up where Jordan’s nails have cut into him. Taylor’s eyes roll back into his head and he starts to get hard in his jeans. This is so messed up. This is awesome, his body tries to tell him, and Taylor feels that but he knows it’s not the truth, not all of it. 

“You’ve just got to tell the truth, Ebs. Say what you feel, man. We did this because we care about you. It might not seem like it right now, but this will be good for you both, I swear. Just … stay close, and stay honest, okay? Don’t try to lie and don’t stay quiet. It’s only for a little while, but it’s important. You need this. We did this to help you guys.” 

Jordan is silent for a moment, strained at Taylor’s side and shaking against whatever he’s trying not to say, but then he sighs and the tension falls away and he’s half curled in against Taylor in an instant, pressing close and resting his forehead in against Taylor’s shoulder. 

“Okay, yes,” Jordan says finally, clear and bright, and then he’s ending the call and tossing his phone across the room. He’s shifting over _into_ Taylor’s lap to straddle him, and he’s pulling the collar of Taylor’s shirt out of the way so he can bury his face in against Taylor’s throat, his mouth falling open flush above Taylor’s collarbone. 

Taylor is still holding onto Jordan’s hand and struggling so hard to only touch him there that he nearly misses it when Jordan speaks, soft but sure against his skin. 

“We have to do this,” he murmurs, and Taylor feels it. He feels Jordan’s mouth shape the words against his throat, but he feels the sentiment burn through him, too. 

“Do … what,” Taylor has to fight to say, because he knows and he can’t ask, he doesn’t need to, but he makes himself say it anyway. The words sting, sticking brittle to the roof of his mouth. 

“I have to tell you some things,” Jordan all but hums, the sound setting off sparks where they touch Taylor, inside and out. “I have to tell you things and you have to be okay with them, with me, afterward. Promise me you will be.”

Taylor still can’t see his face and he doesn’t have a clue when he brought a hand up to cradle the back of Jordan’s head, but it feels like something he was supposed to do, nothing he noticed because it was completely natural. 

“I’ll try to be,” Taylor says, because if Jordan is about to let him down gently then he definitely will not be okay with that, but he’ll be okay with Jordan no matter what. He loves him. However Jordan will let him. As much as he can. 

“And if you’re not … we can forget this ever happened. We can. We can both agree and say it never happened and that nothing we say or do matters. We can do that. Taylor, tell me we can do that.” 

“We can do that. If that’s what you need,” Taylor finds it all too easy to say. 

 

\- 

 

They start out small, just to test it. Jordan sits up in Taylor’s lap but stays close, his knees tightly bracketing Taylor’s hips and his hands clenched near the hem of Taylor’s shirt. At least he’ll look at him, now. 

“I still don’t understand what happened in The Immortals,” Taylor tries, and Jordan laughs. The sound quenches some kind of thirst in Taylor. 

“Getting drafted by the Oilers was the best day of my life,” he’s actually surprised to hear Jordan means. 

“Winning gold with you might have been mine,” Taylor says. 

“I didn’t want to move in with you,” Jordan says, and then bites at his mouth like he didn’t mean to. But he did. 

“That hurts to hear,” Taylor responds without thinking, and winces, because wow. They’ve moved onto the feelings portion of things already, apparently. Awesome. 

“It hurt to _do_ ,” Jordan says, and that fits deeper than everything they’ve said so far has, somehow. It’s still true, but in a different way, and it feels different in a way that seems really important. 

Taylor catches the threads of it that he finds in himself and tugs. 

“I was sixteen the first time I thought about kissing you.” It’s so easy to admit that it must be the truest thing he’s said so far. It tumbles right out and sits there between them, brand new and shining and not new at all, years old and pulled right from Taylor’s heart, ripped right from the very center of everything that he never says. 

“I was almost eighteen when you were sixteen,” Jordan says instantly, and parts of Taylor try to hear refusal in that, denial. It doesn’t feel like that, though. Jordan lifts a hand to rest in over Taylor’s heart, the beat of it wild and way too fast under Jordan’s palm. The touch spreads warmth through Taylor’s chest and it feels like acceptance, like something acknowledged at last. 

“I shouldn’t have been thinking about kissing you, but I was. I couldn’t help it,” Jordan says when Taylor thinks he isn’t going to say any more - thinks he doesn’t have to say anything else. 

Taylor wants to ask a thousand questions, then, but he can’t even ask one. That isn’t how this goes. Anything he wants to learn he has to work to earn. He’s got to give up what he’s looking to gain. 

“I’ve thought about it every single day since,” Taylor says, and it feels like toeing the edge of a cliff, but he can’t back down now, he literally isn’t able to. He has no choice but absolute honesty and it’s terrible and it’s painful and this isn’t how he wanted this to happen, these are things he never ever wanted to admit. He can’t help but feel like not every single aspect of the rush of pride and relief and tentative hope that flows through him in the wake of his admission is directly related to whatever their teammates have done to them. Not every drop of charged, hot happiness that’s coursing through his veins is owed to this. 

Jordan falls forward a little, his grip on Taylor’s shirt going lax and the hand over Taylor’s heart seeming somehow to soak up its beat, Taylor’s pulse thumping through Jordan in a way that Taylor can feel everywhere they’re touching. 

Jordan’s gaze drops to Taylor’s mouth, and turns sharp when he leans in even further. 

“I’m thinking about it now,” Jordan says in something like a whisper and Taylor’s heart stops altogether, but Jordan’s keeps the pace for both of them. 

“I … you _can_ ,” Taylor says, hooking his hands in under Jordan’s knees so he doesn’t try to take his shirt off or something like that instead. 

Jordan’s hands settle on top of Taylor’s when he pulls away. 

“I won’t,” he says, and Taylor is winded. He gasps, wounded, but not by whatever is happening here between them, to them, because that’s still making his body feel like it isn’t his own, like everything that he is has been given over to everything that he wants. Everything he can’t have. Everything Jordan won’t give him. Whatever little part of himself he still has control over reels at Jordan’s words, because he thought … 

He’s jerked out of that in an instant. Thinking doesn’t work. Thinking hurts.

“You could and I want you to, I always want you to and I always will,” he says in a rush, like if he can fill the silence it won’t smother him. He packs it tight with the bared bones of what he feels, what he has to say now because he’ll never say it again. 

“Right now, maybe,” Jordan says, sitting back on Taylor’s knees but keeping their hands together, getting as far from the contact as he can without breaking it, “but you don’t really. Not like I do. It’s different,” he says, so sure that he can make it his truth, when it isn’t Taylor’s. 

“You can’t know that,” Taylor ventures, and is relieved to hear that he’s right. 

“I don’t think about it every day,” Jordan says, “I think about it every minute of every day. Every time we’re together. Whenever we’re apart. Even when you’re right next to me I miss you, and that doesn’t make sense because I never had you to begin with.” 

Taylor wants to push Jordan off his lap and onto the floor. He wants to get away from him, and he wants to drag him closer and _show_ him how he feels. He can’t move. He can’t stay quiet. All he can do is keep letting the thrum of feelings through them pace him. He can speed it up, but he can’t slow it down or switch it off. 

“You’ve always had me. You always will. I don’t know how to want anyone else. I don’t know how to stop wanting you. It’s been years, Ebby, and it’s the same right now as it was the first time I looked at you and thought about how I wanted to hold your hand more than I wanted to lift the cup. You drive me insane. Every single day. And I’ll never leave, I’ll never let you go, because this is better than anything else I’d find, even when it’s nowhere near everything I want.” 

Taylor can’t stop what he’s started. He slips his hand out from underneath Jordan’s vice grip and lifts it to tilt Jordan’s face down into his even when he fights to look away. 

“You’d better take whatever you want from me, because I’ll never give it to anyone else.” 

Jordan makes a sound that’s something like a growl, almost a snarl of frustration and impatience and pain. 

“You’ve got it all wrong,” he’s able to say to Taylor, and Taylor doesn’t understand how that is. 

“You’ve got it backwards,” he says, and must believe. 

“I came out to you before I told a single other person. I came out to you because it was you that I wanted. And it has been ever since. I’m in love with you.” 

Taylor feels it like a hand inside his chest, spreading his heart wide open and sending it sprawling out huge inside him. Everything he feels is everything he is, for a moment. He is what Jordan’s saying, what Taylor hears and feels is true. 

“I said it first,” is the first thing that springs to mind, when push comes to shove and what’s inside has to come out. “I did. I said I love you and it was true. It is true.” 

“But -” Jordan tries to argue, tries so hard that it sends them both tumbling into each other, grasping for whatever part of one another they can reach to ease the pain it sends shooting through them. Taylor thinks he’s going to pass out again, until Jordan presses his face in close to Taylor’s and the feather-light sweep of his eyelashes against Taylor’s cheekbone sends the ache running. 

“Don’t argue, please,” Taylor says as quietly as he can, instruction he truly wants followed, because this is huge and it’s important and now is really not the time for Jordan to show them both just how stubborn he can be. 

“You …” Jordan’s mouth moves soft against Taylor’s jaw, “you want me,” he manages, and his eyes go wide. 

“That’s true,” Jordan says, hard and shocked. 

“That’s _true_ ,” he repeats, in something just far enough from disbelief to only tickle a little, light down through their fingertips, warmth banded around their wrists. That’s not why Taylor laughs. 

“That’s just the beginning of it, you non,” Taylor says, and Jordan is able to punch him - albeit gently - in the arm, because they’re both light-headed with what they’re feeling, their heartbeats tripping over one another’s and the giddy rush of what they’ve said catching up to them and spilling out through the air around them, winding hot and tight around them, keeping them close. As close as they’ve always been about to be. 

Jordan grins, and the feeling dims, because everything else is always lesser to Taylor next to that sight, even witchcraft or magic or whatever this is. It’s got nothing on Jordan Eberle’s smiling face. It can’t even begin to compete with the way Jordan is leaning in to tip that smile over onto Taylor’s face too. 

“You love me,” Jordan says when he’s close enough to breath it soft and true against Taylor’s mouth. 

“Mhmm, I do,” he replies, pressing each word to Jordan’s lips. 

“I didn’t want to move in with you because it’s really hard to see you walk around all the time with your shirt off. I want to bite my name into your skin every single time you do it, when you show me what I want.” 

Taylor groans and pulls Jordan forward even further. 

“You haven’t even kissed me yet and you’re already territorial? You’re gonna be a terrible boyfriend. You’re gonna be the best boyfriend ever.” 

“You dropped the b-word first, dude. Which I plan on never forgetting,” Jordan says as he rubs his nose in over Taylor’s and teases him with kisses that he drops across his jaw line and up to the corner of Taylor’s mouth but no further. 

“In payment for that pleasure you could kiss me properly, you jerk, we have been waiting like four years,” Taylor offers, even though it’s going to turn into something else entirely in a minute. 

Jordan doesn’t make him wait any longer, though, he settles in against him and kisses him as carefully as he can now that whatever is whirring through them has settled into something manageable, something spurring that’s driving them on without dragging them after, now. 

Taylor feels it down to his toes. 

“Our teammates are assholes,” he says a moment later, when Jordan rests his forehead in against Taylor’s so they can catch their breaths, and Jordan nods, and doesn’t have to speak. 

They kiss again, for a moment so long that Taylor is surprised they don’t have to pull out of it to admit something, to offer up more truth. Maybe the kiss is enough. Maybe their mouths caught wet against one another’s is more than they could accomplish with words. 

But when they finally break apart for long enough to think, Taylor realizes it no longer hurts to do so. The only pain he feels is the sharp, lovely drag of Jordan’s mouth against his throat, sucking bruises to the surface that feel like they’ve been waiting a long time to blossom there. 

“Do you -” Taylor begins to ask, and then he knows he doesn’t have to. 

“It’s gone,” Jordan says, and Taylor knows that’s true, through simple reason and nothing more. 

Jordan shifts in his lap, and makes to move away, and Taylor has to let him go just so that he knows he can. He lets him get all the way as far as the hallway before Jordan turns back to face him, and Taylor is there in an instant, holding him up against the wall and kissing him deeper than he has before, urgent now in ways that they can do something about. 

“I love you,” Jordan says, as they tumble down onto his bed, their clothes quickly shed and discarded and everything they have left to say communicated through touch and low sounds, bitten off words and hitched breaths, instead. 

 

-

 

“I know you do,” Taylor says just before they fall asleep, and he does. He knows now. 

 

-

 

Their teammates are still assholes, though. 

Taylor and Jordan sleep in late the next morning, and end up rushing around to get dressed, Jordan pulling on Taylor’s hoodie in the confusion and Taylor forgetting to wear something that covers his throat. 

As soon as they walk into the locker room the place erupts in wolf whistles, and Taylor self-consciously plays with the collar of his shirt, but he doesn’t immediately start doling out punches, so his teammates should think themselves lucky. 

Taylor does trip Whits during practice, and it’s no less than he deserves. 

“You can’t go around slipping people truth roofies, dude, what the hell is wrong with you,” Taylor demands as he helps Whits up off the ice. 

Whits has the good grace to look sheepish, at least. 

“Desperate times call for desperate measures, I’m afraid. I looked it up on the internet and I really truly didn’t think it would work, but then we tested it on Pecks and he genuinely complimented Jonesy’s flow, so. We had to do something, man. For our sakes, if not yours,” he says, gesturing around the rink at how everyone has abandoned the pretense of paying attention to their drills in order to watch this exchange instead. 

Jordan skates over shaking his head, and pokes Whits with his stick before dragging Taylor away. 

“No more fucking love potions, we’re a hockey team, not a coven,” Taylor yells as he lets himself be lead away, but it’s mostly drowned out by the slow clap that erupts for them and their love or whatever. 

“I really am mad that this is how it happened,” Taylor says when Jordan tosses him a drink, and Jordan nods. 

“Me too, but at least it did, eh? And look at at it this way - now they don’t have a leg to stand on if they ever try to complain about our PDAs,” he says, while Taylor is busy getting distracted by the sweat falling along Jordan’s jawline, caught against the stubble that Jordan didn’t have time to shave this morning. 

“So ….” Jordan continues, “wanna go make out in Whits’ stall?”

“Yes. Yes I do. Thank you for asking,” Taylor says, reaching for Jordan’s hand, and they skate away to do just that. 

 

\----  
\----  
\----

**Author's Note:**

> Not true, not profiting.


End file.
